


This Unlikely Heaven

by manics_and_me



Category: Twelfth Night - Shakespeare
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:25:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manics_and_me/pseuds/manics_and_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian finds living unlikely, but there's evidence to the contrary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Unlikely Heaven

His first thought, on waking, is that angels are not what he thought they'd be. He had imagined soft, gentle figures, dressed in white with golden hair. Purity and redemption. The face above him (or is it in front of him? Which way is up?) has no such qualities - it is roughly hewn, as if the creator was in a hurry and had no time for finesse. It's skin is tanned and it's hair is long, dark and wild with thick strands falling haphazardly into it's face and it's chin graced heavily with stubble – a very different creature to those depicted in stained glass and on canvas. It pushes it's hair back (and he would say it was impatiently, except that does not seem quite right for an angel) and with it's gaze unobstructed he sees it's eyes are wide, and a very light very clear blue. The colour is unlike anything he has seen in mortal men, and is a great reassurance that he is indeed in heaven. The storm had been savage after all; survival impossible.

Except... the angel seems to be shouting at him. Surely angels should not shout? Or drip. The creature in front of him certainly seems to be very wet. How odd. The angel stills and looks down at him pensively for a moment before rolling those remarkable eyes and raising it's hand.

It's when the angle slaps him that he starts to think maybe it's not an angel at all.

The sharp, stinging pain in his cheek seems to awaken a chorus of other maladies and he is all at once aware that he hurts _everywhere_. He feels positively _pulverised_ , like every inch of him has turned to nothing but bruise. Not to mention he's soaked through. And freezing. It's now he realises he's probably not in heaven either and next thing he knows he's coughing up an awful lot of water.

The man (and of course he's a man, how could he have ever thought otherwise?) grips his shoulder as he splutters, keeping him steady and he struggles for breath. Colours are too bright and he can see sand and sky and feel the ground solid beneath him and the air salty in his tortured lungs and he is irrefutably _alive_ in such an emphatic way as for it to be _dizzying_. All the while he holds on to the angel who isn't an angel's wrist where he holds him up like it can tether him to existence. 

“What's your name?” the man asks, when he can sit up without the world tilting over.

He remembers, then, exactly who he is. He makes a decision. “Roderigo.” he answers, as he remembers. “It's Roderigo.”

“Antonio.” the man says and smiles, and although Sebastian knows he's not an angel, the blue of his eyes is undiminished.


End file.
